


Small Victories

by Like_a_Hurricane



Category: Constantine (TV), Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, So there I was outside this pub right, Timelords understand synchronicity differently though, and he showed up while I should have been going to sleep, and like plaid and stripes, and now here we are, and said, because I cannot resist certain challenges, by means of exploiting different patterns in the same fabric, for John it isn't so focused, for them its stability of the time-stream that beckons, he shows up where he needs to be, or different layers of fabric in the same outfit, particularly from John Constantine, so this happened, they clash in close proximity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Like_a_Hurricane/pseuds/Like_a_Hurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the crossroads of the synchronicity highway, John Constantine, the Devil's Devil, met the Doctor. Neither of them were very happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Victories

**Author's Note:**

> I had a thought that this sort of crossover would be hard to do given the moral disparity between the camp of Doctor Who and the pulp horror of Hellblazer
> 
> But then I got to thinking at some point that Douglas Adams' concept of the Doctor (and er, _Dirk Gently_... so basically the Doctor in all but name, given D.A.'s history with wanting to tell DW stories long after he stopped working on the show) struck me as a lot like Synchronicity: his perpetual use of “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be" logic, particularly.
> 
> I then couldn't escape this one-shot. It was irresistible and I have poor impulse-control, sometimes. I regret nothing, though, this was a blast to write.

In an alley that happened to be around one side of a London pub, there stood a blond man smoking a cigarette with dreary relish as he glanced up towards the light-polluted night sky as though daring it to start pissing on him again, now they won’t let him smoke at the bar in this place, too. No reason to make this one a frequent visit any longer, then. He muttered about recent anti-smoking legislation and sneered at a dark-haired man who strode right by him into the bar, gleefully puffing on an e-pipe and shooting him a mocking grin in its eerie blue light.

"Sod off to you too, grandad," the guy said.

 "You’re the one whose actually a grandfather, here, of the two of us," John Constantine reminded him. "So I’m baffled why you seemed to think it applies to me. Geraldine’s certainly not _my_ kid and neither is her daughter, that’s for dead certain. Renee hated me long before she fully got her hooks in you, and Geraldine never saw me as more than the world's most uncomfortable bit of furniture.” He then grinned brightly, and infuriatingly.

Chas scowled at him. "Well bollocks to you, then, mate."

 John waved at him dismissively until the cab driver went inside and the door slid shut behind him.

A few more curls of tobacco smoke floated up from his lips and through his fingers around the cigarette. He looked almost at peace, then. Even comfortable, thoroughly buzzed as he was from a few rounds in the pub. 

He leaned back against the brick near the corner of the pub…

And heard a really weird fucking noise.

Seriously, what parts from industrial-electric horror have you got to damage to make that wheezing, oddly chiming and strangely charming (if only after a while, which actually made John only more suspicious) racket?

Then a bit of wind from down the alley followed the noise, and there was a slight thump: a very gentle landing, of something very heavy.

The street warlock groaned in exasperation even as his pulse picked up. Helplessly, he shuffled closer to the alley and peeked around the corner.

There was a big blue object. Rectangular. Good place to break into, because it sure as anything didn’t rightly belong there. Also good indicators: the door opening and a skinny wanker in a pinstriped suit strolling out with a little blue penlight-like object, John would bet someone else’s ignorant racist grandmother’s soul that it wasn’t an electric tobacco-related device.

Not with how the man held it, like he was sampling the air with it for a moment before quickly tucking it away once a man in a trench coat, white shirt, and untightened skinny black tie, appeared at the end of the alley.

 "Sod off, space-man."

"Excuse me?" the Doctor asked, his brow furrowed over a pair of very old, very pained brown eyes.

John cocked his head a bit. The alien did have really great hair. And on closer inspection, the striped suit looked a bit like he might have nicked it from the wrong era, just a little, but continued to wear it over and over for a few centuries anyway, because he liked it. “Sorry. Usually if someone as bizarre as you materialises out of thin air near where I’m standing, it’s because they’re here to ruin my evening.” He cocked his head back. “Eight hundred and twenty times bitten, and I just sort of get tired of it. Know the feeling?”

The Doctor looked curious and wary then, but smirked a bit regardless. “I do, yes. Not often I run into anyone like that I haven’t met before. I’m the Doctor. And you… you must be…” His eyes suddenly went wide and saucer-like. One of his hands, still gripping the TARDIS doorframe, became a bit white-knuckled. His voice wavered a little like he couldn’t decide between excitement at meeting him, and mild horror in realisation of what sort of an evening this might turn into and just how awful it might become. “Right! You’re only John _bloody_ Constantine, of course.” He hesitated. “Are you perhaps up to something nefarious right now? I've got a very reliable hunch that something nefarious is going on nearby.”

 "It’s also never a good sign when they’ve heard of me," the magician muttered under his breath, then shook his head. "How much of the worst bits, then, out with it?" He waved a hand.

 "Oh, there’s a lot of those, aren’t there?" the alien muttered, like he was only just recalling. Then he looked a bit sheepish.

 John hummed, warily amused. ”I’m not on fire today, mate. Why do you think I was so irate at your showing upon an otherwise peaceful night?” He gestured expansively at the dingy and acrid-smelling alleyway serenity around them.

 "Ah. Sorry. You know, for most of the 80’s I really thought you were a myth."

 "You saying I’m not?" John challenged. _I certainly was, then. Almost lived up to my image, in those days._  

"Well." The Doctor face fell into a thoughtful ‘now that you mention it’ expression. Then his smile faded. "Now that’s a tragic thought for you, though, Constantine. Myths are dead and gone."

"So am I, mate." John grinned, and faded away like so much smoke. 

The Doctor stared for a long moment. He glanced sidelong at the pub, from which he could hear music and laughter. A feeling settled into his ribcage that perhaps this was not the place he needed to be, tonight. It was too peaceful. And the ghosts…

Well. The Doctor remembered enough about John Constantine to figure that killing him wouldn’t actually make him any less dangerous. Also, the paradox readings had vanished as soon as that ghost showed up, as though suddenly negated. That hardly made sense, did it?

He hated it when puzzles went missing before he could solve them, but there had been hardly any energy readings or other signs of illusion: not mystic, nor psychic nor technological. He didn’t even have a ghost left to chase, as a result.

How disappointing. Or, the Doctor re-thought, listening to the sounds of merriment in the pub, only a little muffled even by brick walls, perhaps not disappointing at all. He smiled a bit and slapped his own forehead as memory kicked in. “You bastard,” he sighed, and shook his head. The oncoming Synchronicity-headache he suddenly felt jogged loose the necessary memory, then a few more, even older, that he’d nearly forgotten altogether. “Fine, fine, I’m going.”

He back-stepped into the TARDIS, and slowly closed the door.

Back where he still stood standing with his back leaning against the side of the pub, John Constantine grinned unpleasantly, and lit another cigarette to celebrate the banishment of a nosy time-traveling tourist. Despite his heart now beating so hard his hands shook a little as he reached his pack of silk cuts. “The Doctor, eh? Strewth, I almost shat myself when he said that.” Just a bit of smoke and mirrors: small magic, old and cooperative and easy, in a place like this. The right stage, the right atmosphere, and the right reputation. The amount of actual magic required was so minimal even most demons couldn't have detected it. Perfect storm of expectations, that was.

That had been almost _too easy_ , for banishing the likes of the Doctor. 

John knew his myths too, after all.

Now he just had to figure out which scent the Doctor had picked up on around here, and probably make a lot of people very angry about it. In the morning. After he’s slept off at least three more rou-

A scream from the alley on the other side of the pub caught his attention.

"Shite." He took off running, and remembered just how sluggish the combination of alcohol and his smoking habit could make his breathing. His legs, at least, were still accustomed to his constant fleeing, and eventually cooperated after a few stumbling steps.

Maybe he should’ve just hunkered down and let the Doctor just rush by into whatever unnatural mess was afflicting London yet again. It wouldn’t be the first time. Actually, it would be the third. And the fourth occurred when he skidded to a halt at the end of the other alley and saw a taller man in a leather jacket, with the same blonde woman he’d seen the Doctor with the first time. It occurred to him vaguely that he should’ve recognised that man’s hair, but supposed that he got distracted by seeing his face that time around. Their past path-crossings hadn’t lasted long, either. Details could get fuzzy with enough years.

John’s flailing caught the girl’s eye and the man turned upon seeing the wary look on her face in response. 

The Doctor’s eyes were a different colour, and a bit… younger. Also, that glorious hair was nowhere to be seen. And he was taller.

But that was certainly the same man. He gave John the same creeping sense of dread in his gut unique to the events in London being bashed about by titanic otherworldly forces in recent years. Of course he’d dug into them. London’s _his_. Not that anything he’d found out had comforted him.

The magician paused, breathing hard. There was a third with them, another woman, who was clutching an arm wounded by the grip of either a really large bird, or something else with tridactyl hands or feet. The woman herself was olive-skinned with big dark eyes, and she was crying her eyes out against Rose’s shoulder, as the younger woman stroked her hair.

"I’ll just call an ambulance, then, shall I?" he asked quickly. On-the-spot excuses had always been his forte.

"Yes!" Rose said quickly.

The Doctor spun around to look at her, and she shot him a very grave look in return. He didn’t argue.

John didn’t blame him. “Right on it, M’Lady.”

Hunkering down was the right choice, it seemed, then. Time paradoxes could lose him a whole decade. Except that he couldn’t help but push it. It was the baby blanket on the ground that did it. “Whatever you’re looking for might be borrowing the M.O. of a Babylonian goddess, and if so you’d _really_ better hurry after that… bird.” He raised both eyebrows pointedly, and took a cautious step towards them.

The Doctor and Rose exchanged worried glances.

"And just who are you, then?" the tall alien inquired, sounding deceptively bright and friendly, but his eyes were narrowed in blatant suspicion.

John considered, while looking back and forth between them. He then beamed, feeling a bit vindicated, as he found just the right words spilling from his tongue: “You’ll find out later that you didn’t need to bother in the first place. Just once. Clearly, it was already handled, or I wouldn’t have been dragged into your wake again as a negating effect.”

 There. Paradox neatly tied up in a bow, allowing him to gracefully bow out of this mess. All in one. Almost like he planned it that way. And he would have the gall to leave everyone thinking that he had, because he could. The thought made his grin widen even further, which seemed to incense the Doctor just a little, until he shook it off, looking slightly confused.

Rose’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god it’s you.”

The magician cringed. “Never a good sign.”

"No, I've met your friend, Chas! My mum lived down the street from him a few years ago!" She insisted. "I never did catch your name, but uh…" She cleared her throat quietly. She might have given him a surreptitious head-to-toe glance. "Well, my friends and I rather liked your coat and your bum, honestly."

John beamed.

"What did your mum think of him?" The Doctor asked lightly.

"She thought he was bad news, always visiting that poor cabby friend of his at the oddest of hours."

At that, the alien slowly raised an eyebrow in silent questioning.

John shrugged. “Look, Chas is inside. I was going to take her to him to get to hospital, actually. He’s far faster than an ambulance, and it’s saved my life a few times.”

"Good," Rose said. Turning to the woman still leaning slightly against her, but now pulled back a bit and wiping her eyes, she said, "Helen, I swear, we will come back for you, alright?"

She nodded. “At least it’s got better medical care than my native century.”

"That’s the spirit," the Doctor said softly. "We’ll be back. And if you damage a single hair on her-"

"I know who you are, mate, no fucking worries. I’m not suicidal," he assured. The additional glare, for emphasis from the man, was harrowing even by a Hellblazer’s standards, though. "Easy, mate."

"We have to go," Rose reminded him. "He’s clearly got the point. You don’t need to posture at him."

"I’m not-" the Doctor protested, turning to her.

"You are a _bit_ ," John muttered. 

"You," the Doctor said, looking at him again sharply. "Why should I know you?"

John narrowed his eyes. “No business of yours, mate. I’m nothing to do with you. We’re on different Synchronicity wavelengths.”

"Oh is that what that dissonance is? It’s awful," The Doctor muttered. “Do you feel it too?”

"Oh yeah. And it’ll only get worse the closer you get, trust me," the magician bluffed, sounding like this was at least the eighth time this’d happened to him. He mostly just wanted to maintain more space between them for his own comfort.

"But how-"

"Doctor!" Rose called.

The Doctor looked to her again, and then fixed his eyes on Helen, questioning.

"I’ll be fine," Helen said, standing beside John. With a sniff and an application of handkerchief, she looked much more composed. "You know how resilient I am, Doctor. Now go."

With sad smiles her way, like they wished they could trust her more, the pair of more reckless lunatics (if only for that night) then took off at a run.

As he settled an open palm gently between Helen’s shoulder-blades and turned them both slowly towards the end of the alley, John tilted his head just enough to discern that Rose’s arse was nice too, he noticed. So was the Doctor’s. Damned fine, actually, and the legs on him…

Idly, he wondered just how many other faces this particular myth happened to have.

 "Thank you," Helen said. "I’m so sorry, this must have ruined your night."

"It could be a lot worse, love, believe you me."

"How did you know that, about the goddess?"

"I dabble in a lot of things." A smirk curved up one side of John’s mouth more than the other as he reached for his silk cuts, flicked open the pack, and offered her one once they stood outside the alley and she leaned back against the wall stiffly like all the strength had gone out of her at once.

"God bless you, sir," she whispered. "These heathens don’t understand." She plucked the cigarette away and let him light it for her when he offered.

Then he lit his own. “Heathens, eh?”

"In the futuristic sense. They’re a bit… too sanitised, at times," the woman said. "I’m from a different sort of background."

"So an earlier century than this?"

She glanced at him. “Who are you?”

"John Constantine, but uh, do us a favour and don’t let the Doc know that. I met his future self not ten minutes before I heard you, and I want the punchline to work out properly."

She chuckled a little. “Fair enough. You knew him from before that though? From your perspective.”

"Nah, but I know everyone else. Ask anybody."

She shook her head.

After a while he pointedly examining her expression, he inquired, “So… 1800s?”

"Yes. Smack in the middle of them."

"Traveling with a baby?"

"Not mine, actually. Her mother, a good friend of Rose’s, went missing, some days ago. A week before that? The baby’s eldest sister vanished the same way. Now the baby." She shook her head a bit to clear off the too-vivid memory, shoulders hunching just slightly.

John made a face. “Then my guess about the goddess was off. Must be an actual alien. They’re not exactly my specialty.”

"Alright, so who is John Constantine, for you to know all this?" she asked.

"Who is Helen?"

She considered, taking a draw from her cigarette, and exhaling smoke slow enough to savour how it coiled up through the air. “You might just find out, if you play your cards right, _Con_ stantine.”

Sensing flirtation, John’s interest increased, until he realised she was actually lying, her air just a bit too feigned. It was also the generation-gap. Her expectations of him showed a bit too much in the way she tilted her head away a little and arched her back a little. She didn’t expect him to never look away from her face, with her eyes so downcast and the swell of her breasts emphasised. She wasn’t flirting because she was enjoying the chase; she was doing a tedious chore, like she felt it was expected of her, and it showed, just a little. Just enough. John played along with one of his most charming smiles, but left the wattage low, with no expectations in his expression: just warmth, mischief and curiosity. When she seemed to relax a bit, at that, his eyebrows arched in intrigue as he glanced pointedly at her injuries and did a slight double-take. “So your arm, there…”

"The skin will actually grow back in about two days. They will still expect me to be in the hospital." Her skin at the edges of the wound, John had only then realised, seemed to have thousands of very, very tiny scales that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Also inflammation was already going down. "They are used to seeing me hide some of the effects of my injuries under bandages, and I am as good at conning hospitals long enough to nick the adequate supplies as I… suspect that you might be. They know they can find me awaiting pickup there, when the chase is done."

John neither confirmed nor denied aloud, but his eyebrows waggled.

"You’re human, though?" she asked, uncertain.

"Yeah, love. Through and through." Getting an idea, he settled his cigarette between his lips and muttered,  "this night could be worse," around a bit of its smoke. He shrugged off his coat and proffered it to her. "If you put this on to cover up the wounds, there, you could easily postpone your hospital farce and have a pint with my mates and I, then, if you like."

"Why were you out here, if they’re all inside? I meant to ask."

With the relish of schadenfreude and his deep love of offending people from previous centuries, John told her, “They don’t allow you to smoke in pubs these days. It’s a law.”

Her jaw dropped.

John caught her falling cigarette with an air of long-practice, and put it back between her fingers, when she held them up for the purpose. She inhaled a bit deeper. “Well shit.”

"I know how you feel, love."

They finished their cigarettes in companionable silence, then, until the pub’s hearth beckoned them, and the renewed drizzle reminded them not to ignore that beckoning. She opened the door for John and held it, with a slight theatrical bow.

"Enjoying the modern era?" he prompted.

"Yes. I just also resent what things I loved, but which this world has discarded, is all," she said.

"Now that," the magician concurred, as he stepped inside and she followed, closing the door behind them, "I’m willing to drink to."


End file.
